The End
by adamsjp007
Summary: "The End" is just that, the first chapter of the End of the World. This chapter introduces the first hero who will rally to fight Lucifer in a battle that will determine control of Heaven, Hell, and Earth. Love comments.
1. Chapter 1

1. Oklahoma

"Give me another please."

The bartender, a burly man with more hair sprouting off his shoulders than head, lifted his eyes from the morning paper, reached underneath the bar, and poured another shot of Old Crow. This time he didn't stop. He poured until the bourbon cascaded over the rim and formed a puddle around the base of last two shots had been "regular," two fingers by bartending standards, but the third he poured to nearly five.

The man smiled to himself and considered, just for a second, bending down and slurping the spilled bourbon. He stopped himself, not wanting to think better of it. Mostly, he didn't want to feel the judgment of the bartender's glance. It was morning and the bartender looked as if he had been there all night. He was a bald, husky man who stood like a gorilla, with his weight on the palms and his body hunched over the bar. He wore a sweat filled 'wife beater' and a grease stained apron. His pours smelled of whiskey and his eyes peered red. He turned the pages of his newspaper with the speed of some one who only had the energy to read the headlines and skim the first paragraphs. He paid the man little attention.

The man raised his glass in a gesture of thanks and immediately tossed back two fingers. The burning his throat had given away to numbness. He was thankful not only to have bourbon but to have found an open bar and the company of a quiet man.

He had been driving for three days straight and with his destination only miles away he needed a drink. He dreaded what was to come and, after having completed fifty-seven procedures, knew that booze made the day easier.

Oklahoma had proved to be both beautiful and boring. The roads, which seemed like rivers of cement, wound and snaked through endless green fields. Rotting wooden posts connecting miles of barbed wire formed the banks of the cement rivers. Every breeze carried the musty, earthy smell of cow dung and dandelions. As he drove, the road disappeared into the horizon that hid behind the rippling landscape. Small towns consisting of one major thoroughfare and small grids of connecting suburbs quickly came and went. Old church steeples, red brick houses, silos, and dilapidated barns marked property lines. People moved slowly and cars clustered around diners, gas stations, and high schools.

He was in no hurry to arrive at his destination and once he reached Ames Oklahoma he prayed for an open bar. The Rusty Bucket was five miles outside of town and was and oasis of weathered wood and asphalt parking. In the distance it looked like a barn but as neared and lifted his foot from the gas pedal, a lit neon Old Style sign and open door welcomed him.

He sat with three fingers left in his glass. A triangle of sun inched its way through the open door and illuminated the circulating dust. He swirled the last of his bourbon, wished that he could leave Oklahoma, and finished with one gulp. As he swallowed, it was his sense of duty that kept him from a fourth.

"Thanks for the drink," he said leaving a fifty dollar bill on the bar. He turned and walked into the triangle of sun. The morning smelled of renewal. The air was clean and crisp. A lone tree stood on the other end of the parking lot and fanned its red, orange, and brown leaves toward the Autumn sun.

The drink rejuvenated him, gave him strength. He felt ready, or least as ready as he could. He knew the task would not be easy despite being a specialist. The only man sanctioned in all of North America.

He meandered in the parking lot. His was the only car and he walked to it slowly allowing the crisp breeze of Autumn to rush over him. He loved autumn. The contrast of the warm sun and the cold air tickled his skin. The smell of decaying wet leaves and the brilliant colors always gave him a sense of peace. He wished he could take the day off and wallow away the rest of the afternoon with a bottle of rum and a view of pastures dotted with grazing cows. He wished could relax but a sense of responsibility propelled him forward. He placed his sunglasses across his eyes and turned toward the sun. His slow pace and the hot sun had heated his all black attire and baked his skin. His shirt was a black button down. He left the top buttons open and a simple gold cross laid across his chest. He tucked his shirt into his black pants. Black Converse All Stars with black laces dressed his feet.

He planted his hand on the open window of driver side door and hopped, through the open roof, and landed with a bounce on the old springs. His 1966 Chevrolet Chevelle convertible was the one true love of his life. It was beautiful car. It was shinny black with a white vinyl top and unless it rained or snowed that top was down. It had four sunken headlights that gave it a sleek vicious personality. The tires were fat and chromed and gave it its quintessential muscle car feel. It was the kind of car that drew attention in small town America. When they saw him dressed in black, and jumping out through the open roof, the people looked and whispered things like "Hollywood here?" or "Was there a flying saucer crash I don't know about?"

Upon taking North America as his assignment, the car was his one demand. The man argued the road would be his life, that it was only fair to drive in comfort and speed. He knew it was a luxury; he was it was excessive, but he didn't care. The car would be his home, his companion, and he needed to love it. A Toyota would not suffice. After making the demand his boss raised his head, studied him in disapproval, and waved his hand in displeased agreement. "You may have whatever car you want," was all that what ever said on the topic. He choose all black 1966 Chevrolet Chevelle convertible. He never regretted it for a moment.

He had been driving around the country for three years and had logged 78,000 miles.

He fired the ignition and sent a spray of gravel, dust, and blue exhaust back at the Rusty Bucket. He quickly inched the speedometer over 95 mph. As he raced down a road simply called E0490, he glanced over at the case file sitting open on the passenger seat. The photo of a young girl stared back him. He flipped the photo and looked at the page of directions underneath. 2485 Brentwood Dr. was just two turns and fifteen miles ahead.

He unclicked his seatbelt and raised his body. As his head inched over the window, the wind smacked him, like a slap across the face, and knocked his head back against his neck. His eyes watered and he opened his mouth to gulp down the sharp air. He hoped the wind would sober him, just slightly, but the whiskey proved too much. He was drunk and about to work.

He sunk back into his seat and slowed a reasonable 55 mph.

As he approached 2485 Brentwood Dr. he repeated an affirmation he had taught himself two years earlier. "Even if it's fake, you're still helping somebody, and that's your job. Your job is to help people and it's a good job." He repeated this affirmation twice more.

Emily Hoebetker was be the man's fifty-eighth attempt at what he called an "exploration of truth." He believed all previous fifty-seven attempts to be failures.

4


	2. Chapter 2

2. Emily Hoebetker

As he skidded to a halt, gravel crunched underneath the fat rubber of the man's beloved 1966 Chevelle. 2485 Brentwood was a classic American farmhouse. Glancing out the open roof he quickly surveyed the area. The driveway open into a cul-de-sac and split the field. To his right and over a fence cows grazed and to his left grew a personal garden of tomatoes, pumpkins, and corn. The compound consisted of three buildings. One was large and freshly painted red barn. It was a classic barn with white trim, red paint, a sliding door, and a hay loft. The second was little further into the property and was a completely dilapidated barn. Cars, tires, lawnmowers, and rusted junk surrounded its perimeter. Long grass poked through the rusted holes. Upon quick inspection the door looked bolted shut, but enough holes rotted the wood so that gaining access would be easy. To his left, opposite the nice barn, stood the farmhouse. It looked like it belonged in _Gone with the Wind. _Five steps lead up to a porch that wrapped around the entire house. To one side of the front door, a swing with worn pastel cushions rocked in the breeze. To the other side sat two chairs and a small table with an open Coors can. As the he approached, he couldn't help but think how quaint it was, how American.

The farmer slammed the screen door behind him and paced toward the car. He waved and flipped his wrist to indicate that he should park any where. A Oklahoma Soones Mesh with a giant OS covered his balding head. He wore a salt and pepper beard that looked two days past a five o'clock shadow. He was heavy set, wore dirty overalls, and the man judged him to be in his late fifties.

His walked clumsily, an obvious combination of panic and alcohol. He ran his hand over his prickly beard and looked over the car. He was the kind of man who enjoyed cars and, given a different set of circumstance, he would have spent hours admiring its details. But he couldn't help but gawk for only a moment. His eyes rolled over the car the way most men's roll over the curves of a bikini.

The man gathered his files from the passenger seat and opened the door to greet his host.

"That's a nice car you got there," the farmer said.

"Thanks, it's kind of my baby," the man responded.

"You're the Catholic guy," the farmer said pointing to the man's bare neck.

"Yeah, sorry I don't like the collar. It's itchy. Hi, I am Tony, well Father Antonin Czarnaki, but you can call me Tony."

"Obliged. I am John Hoebetker. It's nice to meet you. I am relieved that you were willing to come."

"Well, this is what I do," Father Tony said shrugging his shoulders.

"I-um, well. Do you want to go inside and get started? I don't rightly know the procedure Father. I don't rightly know that much about Catholic Jesus. To be honest, we're Lutherans."

_That's ok because I don't rightly believe that much in Catholic Jesus_, thought Father Tony, but duty forced him to hold his tongue. Father Tony didn't lie. This was exactly what he did and he had done it exactly fifty-seven times. Each one of those fifty-seven times he considered a failure, not because he didn't succeed, but he because he didn't actually do anything.

"Really Tony is fine. I am not a big fan of the 'Father.' I need a minute before I can go inside and meet Emily," Father Tony said reading the girl's name from his file. "The reality is that the first thing we need to do is talk, a serious talk. Is there a place we can go, maybe have something to drink."

"Right. You're right sir. I've forgotten myself," John opened his arm and pointed Tony to the freshly painted barn. "My manners have taken a back seat in these past few months," John said leading Father Tony toward the barn.

"It's understandable. But before we can move forward we need to talk. It's important. Is your wife available? It would be better if she were here too."

John hesitated. It was obvious to Father Tony that John didn't want to admit that his wife had ran. "She couldn't stay any longer. Do you think you can help us?"

"First we talk," Father Tony said as John slide the barn door open.

Inside was the man cave of dreams. It made most men's living rooms look ragged. There was a 1950s coke refrigerator that for a nickel dispensed either coke or Coors. Pristine porcelain signs lined the walls advertising everything from Dad's Root-beer to Veedol oil. Off to the side, three black leather couches faced a large flat screen TV. Opposite the TV sat a full bar and, on the far end of the barn, John displayed a Ford Mustang and a 1930 Hudson. The floor was carpeted and everything was clean except for three pizza boxes carelessly tossed into the sink behind the bar.

John poured two cups of coffee and placed them on the table in between the couches.

"John," Father Tony said and paused to gain his attention. John was obviously tired, but Father Tony knew that this talk was essential and his attention was required. "I have done fifty-seven of these..." _But not one of this true, _he thought as he dove into his stump speech. "...And they have all had a positive result."

"That's..." John said with sigh. "...good news."

"Don't breath too easily yet. The Roman Catholic Church, my bosses, require that I inform you of the seriousness of this situation. So I am just going to tell you, straight forward, what they want me to tell. We take possession very seriously and exorcisms for us is essentially a two step process. The first step is that I need to determine if we have an actual possession. The Roman Catholic defines possession as when a demon, that is a supernatural entity, enters a body and uses it as a host. To be defined as a possession something supernatural must occur. To give you an idea. I have done fifty-seven exorcisms, but in the past three years I have visited 1,232 people who have claimed possession who I have determined were not possessed. Possession is rare. As a priest, I will preform step two, the exorcism, only if I determine that Emily is truly possessed..."

_Bullshit_, Father Tony thought. In Father Tony's mind even the fifty-seven weren't truly exorcisms. A true exorcism, as the definition stated, required an actual demon, and in fifty-seven experiences Father Tony believed that he had never encountered an actual demon.

John Hoebetker listened only to be polite. He neither cared nor understood why the church defined possession. He only wanted to help his daughter.

Despite his beliefs Father Tony was dutiful. He performed his investigation and the ritual by the book. That, in fact, was the reason the church had a book. Long ago, in the 15th century, the church realized that not all its practitioners were righteous. That being the case, the church empowered the ritual and the process. They made the exorcist secondary. Exorcism became a craft. People with faith were skilled, but people without faith could still go through the motions and preform an inferior exorcism..

As the past three years taught Father Tony, the "by the book" approach had its problems. Mostly notably the supernatural criteria of possession became defined. Hollywood and the Internet popularized exorcism. Every twelve year old girl knew the symptoms. They were easy to fake. All anyone had to do was stickily follow the book and they would be defined as possessed. In his mind, Father Tony encountered fifty-seven "Hollywood fakers." None were actually possessed, but all knew the symptoms perfectly, and some even believed that they were possessed.

The fraud fatigued Father Tony. Ten years ago he joined the priesthood because he had faith. Three years ago he experienced a crisis. Doubt took hold. He wanted explore the world and discover the truth. He desperately wanted to encounter a demon to prove the truth of his faith. Five hundred possession later, Father Tony discovered what he now believed to be the truth. There was no supernatural; faith was stupid.

"The first question I need to ask as part of my investigation, is have you had exorcists from other religions or any Protestants? " Father Tony continued.

"Look, I called everybody..."

"It's alright John, I am not judging. I just need to know what kind of spiritual people and rituals have been going on here since, well, how long has it been since it started?"

"Forty-seven days. It started forty-seven days ago. That's when Emily floated from the field over there to the front porch."

"Floated?" Father Tony asked. I was supernatural symptom, but in his fifty-seven cases Father Tony had only heard of it described as levitation (which wasn't easy to fake, but doable) and he had never encountered a levitation that traversed such a distance.

"Floated. That girl come from behind that barn," John said pointing to the dilapidated barn. "Ten feet in the air, floating. She was straight, like she was standing, but she looked limp as if none of her muscles worked. After she fell and ran to her and held her. I looked and the ground underneath her path was burned, but there was no fire. It's still ash. Nothing grows."

It was an amazing story, but Father Tony's initial reaction was disbelief. He wondered only why John would lie, how she could fake it, or most likely, how much was exaggeration and misinterpretation.

"You'll have to show me after we finish talking. The other exorcists?"

"First, I called the my Pastor." As John talked, Father Tony took notes. "He come out here, wave a cross and plash some water, like in the movies. But nothing. That thing inside of her just talked in a way nobody could understand and then nothing. My Pastor, his name is Michael Schnieder, he still comes every couple days. He's a good man. Does the same thing, sprinkles some water, says some words, and nothing. I called two more Pastors. I think one was a Baptist. He practically ran out of here. The other, by then the word was getting around, he was that guy on channel thirteen, Reverend Donovan White. On TV he expels twenty demons a night. People run on stage, shake, he puts its hands on them, and they fall to the ground. Cured-so he claims. It's such bullshit. Pardon my language."

Father Tony chuckled. "Sorry, I don't mean any offense. But bullshit is right. During my studies I worked with a Reverend just like him. He said that sin is caused by a demon, and so all the sinners line up to stop their gluttony by having the demon of french fries expelled. Bullshit is right. My bosses don't approve. It's a growth industry for those guys, TV and all. A real demon is not sin, it's supposed to be a thing, like a man, with a personality and intelligence. But tell me, is this Michael Schniender somebody you trust?"

"Yes, like I said he is a good man and a good Pastor. He runs the youth group that Emily belongs. They do sports, hiking and all sort of good things for the kids."

"I need two more people to do the exorcism. So if I invited him, you would be ok with him being in the room."

"Of course? He's only one who's stayed with me."

"You think he would take direction from the 'Catholic guy?'"

"He would do what needs to be done to help."

"Has there been any others. Any non-Christians."

"Like I said I called everybody. I wanted to try a Buddhist. I always thought, 'he's a peaceful looking fat guy.' The only one we got near hear is a Korean Buddhist. It wasn't that different. Instead of water they used candles and smoke. Nothing. There is one more I am ashamed to tell you about but at this point I no longer care about my shame. Emily is too important. There is this guy over in Tuskahoma who claims to be a member of the church of Satan. I called him. I don't know maybe I thought they could talk like friends or something. I regretted it the moment I saw him. No car like yours. He had on a cape and painted his nails black. He even had on black lipstick of all things. He brought something from the butcher, he said it was pig's heart. It got weird."

"I need to hear it."

"He made a pentagram around Emily's bed with chalk so that she was in the middle. Waited till midnight. Stabbed the heart with sharpened piece of bone, poured the blood on her lips. He said something in Latin, I think. Then he asked the demon what his name was and why he was here. Emily changed. She looked at him, not like she looked at anybody in forty-seven days. She spoke, but it wasn't English. He couldn't tell what he said. But this is where it got weird. He had one of them Ouija boards. It was sitting the floor, next to his tool bag. That little pointer snapped and started moving. Neither of us even near it. It spelled out one world and then repeated it three times. 'Beloved.' I thought it was Emily trying to talk to me, but the truth is I don't know what it means."

"I can't tell you what it means either but that's interesting. Your Satanic priest used some of our methods, but I never heard of bringing a Ouija board to an exorcism before. What is his name, this Satanist?"

"He calls himself Demian. Like I said, Tuskahoma. I can get you his number if you want."

"Yes, before I leave today. What was Emily like just before the possession? Was she depressed? Did you have a fight?"

"She's a sixteen year old girl, so yes."

"But I mean anything out of the ordinary? Drugs? Sex? Boyfriends? I know this might be hard, but the truth will only help."

"She's my daughter. I am not going to sit here and tell you I know everything thing that goes on in her life, because I don't. She's sixteen and I am sure she hides things and I am sure she has done things I don't approve of, but what I can tell you is that one day everything is normal and the next day she's floating."

"All right. Has she seen a medical doctor or psychiatrist?  
"Nope."

"May I ask why not? I ask because of the 1,232 people who claimed to be possessed but who were not, all of them needed needed a doctor." _The fifty-seven too, for that matter_, Father Tony thought.

"To tell you the truth, the idea never occurred to me. I just came so sudden. I guess I figured when your car is broke you go to a mechanic, so when your soul is broke you go to a priest."

"Well, I'd like to bring in a psychiatrist and I'd like Emily to visit her for at least one year after I finish."

"Anything," John said leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Is there anything else you think I might need to know, then can you please show me the scorched earth?"

"Well there's only two things I think you need to know. The first is, I don't rightly know where Emily disappeared to in the first week."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that is before Pastor Michael and I restrained her, Emily didn't sleep. She would get up and leave, come back exactly three hours and thirty three minutes later. We noticed the third day. The fourth and fifth she broke the restraints. I tried to follow her but she ran, ran you wouldn't believe. We don't rightly know where she went. I take responsibility for any problems that might caused but that's what happened."

"You mean she was mobile," Father Tony asked. He was surprised. He never heard of 'quickly on set mobile possession.' Many of the kids diagnosed with mental illness were mobile, but their possessions were never described as happening in a day.

"That's what I mean."

"And the second thing."

"I love my daughter. And I will do whatever you want to help her. I am desperate. So please, please help."

"Like I said. I take this very seriously. I will do what I can. Can you show me the burned earth."

John lead Father Tony outside and around to the side of the barn. What looked like a man made walking path of cut through the tall grass. It ran between the barns and circled around the old dilapidated one. Father Tony stooped down to examine it. The earth was gray, like the ash the day after a Bar-b-que, but it was compacted. He dug a few inches with this fingers and still the earth was gray. He brought it to his mouth and the bitter taste of sulfur tickled his tongue.

"How deep does it go I wonder? Do you have a shovel," Father Tony was legitimately curious. In his three years as North America's exorcist he had never encountered scorched earth. If it went more than a foot deep, he would accept it as supernatural. He would define Emily as possessed and be impressed with her, or John's, creativity.

Father Tony stabbed the shovel and began to dig.

Father Tony had reason to doubt. He had what he believed to be a scientific explanation for everyone of his possessions. Of the fifty-seven exorcism he had preformed fifty-one of them had been girls ages twelve to eighteen. Of the fifty-one, thirty-eight should have been diagnosed with mental illness: schizophrenia, bi-polar disease, insomnia, and Tourette Syndrome. He had come to realize that a stigma was attached to young women. They were supposed to be healthy and fertile and when they were sick, nobody wanted to believe it. Mental illness was less common in young females and so, when they were sick, everyone wanted to pass them off as possessed. Eight of the the fifty-one young girls, Father Tony regarded as delusional (but without mental illness). For the most part these girls lived in rural, isolated areas and were raised by "Neo-Christians." They feared sexuality and were ignorant of their bodies. When puberty struck, they became confused and guilty and believed their "affliction" was outside of their control. It was for these girls that the exorcisms ritual (combined with a therapist) worked the best. The exorcism freed them from the guilt and the therapist freed them from the confusion. The other five young girls Father Tony regarded as complete liers. They purposefully and willfully faked their possession. Four of them did it to either escape abuse or for attention. The final girl wanted to be an actor and filmed the entire event with hidden camera stuffed insider her teddy bear and her phone. Two days after he left, Father Tony saw himself on youtube. Of the remaining nine exorcisms two were adult women. Their cases were mild and Father Tony didn't really know what to make of them, but their symptoms mirrored a mid-life crisis. One woman went through catatonic phases and the other broke with all behavior patterns and started producing erotic art. Father Tony actually enjoyed talking to her and he agreed to the exorcism mostly on account of her husband and the fact that she never wore clothes.

The seven males proved to be more diverse cases. Six of the males believed that they were possessed by a specific person or fictional character. Hitler, Napoleon, The Incredible Hulk, Cleopatra, Freddy Mercury, and Virgil all spoke English in deep raspy voices and the possessions all ended with confused eyes asking "was I just somebody famous?" But there was one case that Father Tony couldn't readily explain. It was the reason, at one of the reasons, he hadn't yet abandoned the priesthood. The possessed man was a University Archaeologist. According to his wife, one day he came home completely white and changed. He was rational, cold, calculating, and completely evil. When Father Tony met him, he was in prison for attempting to assemble the components of a nuclear bomb. He talked slowly with his head down and his eyes bulged. The man claimed his break with society was rational. He claimed that "Mother Earth" was dying and radical action was needed to awaken a new spirit.

After an hour, Father Tony had dug chest deep. With every shovel full he still unearthed a pile of gray sulfur tasting ash. The sun browned his forehead, Sweat and dirt covered his brow. He stopped, leaned on the handle of the shovel, and looked up at John.

"Satisfied?" John asked.

"No," Father Tony said surveying the mess, the barns, and his inability to explain the depth.

He whipped brow with his soiled shirt sleeve and took a breath.

A sound, loud and harsh, washed over the compound. Father Tony looked up at John. It started as a whine but grew into a wail. It felt torturous and Father Tony felt it dig, like a thousands needles, into every pore of his skin. It was tangible and sent goose flesh rocketing up and down his arms. It grew deeper and steadied. It was continuous. It both deep like a fog horn and high like fire truck. It was emotional, like a hundred monks chanting at the same time. The sound wailed for six minutes and thirty-three seconds without lapse. Then it stopped.

"What was that?" Father Tony asked.

"That was Emily."

They stood silent together for several minutes, as Father Tony tried to comprehend how that sound could come from one girl.

"I will make preparations and we will begin tomorrow.".


	3. Chapter 3

3. Exorcism

After a night of phone calls, preparation, and no rest Father Tony sat in booth in at Lori's Diner. He cupped his small brown mug with hot coffee around his folded palms and looked out the window waiting. He took big breaths and exhaled deeply, fighting both his sleeplessness and doubts. On the white linoleum table with dark freckles sat his plate of uneaten waffles and melted whip cream. The Diner was busy and Father Tony focused on the blackness of his coffee while he ignored the hustle of waitresses, the clanging of plates, and the smell of bacon. He occasionally glanced over the circular red leather stools and brass molded counter top at the display bottles of Coors, Pabst, and Bell's (what he assumed to be a local favorite).

Fourteens hours after hearing Emily wail, while ash remained dug underneath his fingernails, Father Tony didn't know what to think anymore. Exorcist preparation required hours of reflection and prayer and he always dutifully did it, although he always considered it an act of going through the motions. Last night, while praying to the stars and hearing no reply, the wail made him question his lack of faith. The wail was so-he didn't know what-so powerful that when he thought back over the events of the last afternoon it was haunting. It chilled. Yet, he couldn't help but think how easy it would have been to fake. Go on . Record the T-Rex from Jurassic Park, the probe from Star Trek 4, and mix in a little Nine Inch Nails, and blast the whole thing over an amplifier. Any 14 year old could do it. A lie was the preferable belief. It was more logical.

"You must be Father Antonin Czarnaki. You called me last night. I am Barbra James," a woman in her early sixties said sitting across from him. At first Father Tony wondered how she knew who he was, but then realized he wore his collar.

"Tony, please. You want something to eat?"

"Just coffee."

Barbara James was for Father Tony the perfect therapist. She lived in the area; she was willing to work on a prorated fee, and she was an atheist willing to an Exorcism. Over coffee, Father Tony told her everything from what to expect from the ritual and to an explanation of the ash underneath his fingernails. She agreed it was faked and that Emily desperately needed her help.

Barbara James was a sixty-two year stocky woman with short grey hair. Father Tony was sure that in the sixties she was the kind of woman grabbed rifles out of the authorities's hands and fucked on the dirt near a campfire. Her atheism was a religion. She believed that Churches were evil institutions that perpetuate gender inequality and religion existed only as a denial of finality of death. Father Tony could not disagree. Now she was a mature therapist who believed in the wisdom science and in both the horrific and healing power of humanism. She would be perfect for Emily.

After talking for over an hour they hopped the 1966 Chevy Chevelle and headed back to John Hoebetker's farm. He had arranged to meet Michael Schnieder, the third member of his team and the family's Baptist Paston on the farm.

When the pulled up Michael and John sat on the steps of the front porch waiting.

Father Tony explained what he expected out of everyone. He would be in charge. Nobody was to speak, unless he asked them. Barbara was an observer and recorder. She was to film the entire Exorcism (plus the Catholic Church required a woman in the room when performing an Exorcism on a girl). John was to remain at the ready downstairs. He was not to come upstairs unless directly asked by Father Tony. He was instructed to be ready to provide water, tea, blankets, food, crosses, flashlights, or anything that might be requested. Michael was the assistant. He would instructed to repeat prayers to take over when Father Tony needed a break.

"Any questions?" Father Tony asked.

"Will her head spin?" Barbara asked.

"I doubt it," Father Tony curtly replied, knowing that 360 degree head spin was impossible to fake.

"Yeah, I got a question?" Michael said. "What's that smell?"

"Sulfur," John said. "Emily has reeked on an off again since this started."

They all breathed in and looked at the wood paneled ceiling. A mist of pungent heavy odor seemed to seep through the cracks in the ceiling and the stench of rotten eggs inhumed in the backs of their mouths. It came on fast and strong.

"It knows what's happening," Michael said. "When we tried before it always knew that something coming."

"Well, no point in waiting around down here," Father Tony said, while at the same moment thinking that a fourteen year old girl is nothing to fear.

They walked up the stairs in a single-file while John sat on the couch downstairs. He followed his hands and started to pray.

A few feet from the door, Father Tony turned to Michael and handed him a black leather bag the type that a doctor in the 1950s might have used to make house calls. While Michael held it Father Tony opened and took out a rosary and a book titled _Rituale Romanun._

"Everything else I will need is inside. When I ask for something it will be in there."

Upstairs the smell of the sulfur was much stronger and Barbara pinched her nose as they turned toward the bedroom door.

Thump thump thump thump thump thump. The wall erupted in series of thumps. It sounded as if twenty fists were on the other side of the wall rapidly knocking wall.. Michael jumped and Barbara moved to the other side of the hall. Father Tony put his ear against the wall and felt the vibration of every rapid knock against his earlobe. It sounded as if there were at least ten people knocking. The thumps were not strong but rapid.

"What the fuck," he mumbled to himself.

"It knows," Michael said as he turned pale. "It knows that we are coming to take back Emily's body and its trying to scare us off."

"Look. It's just a girl and a bag of parlor tricks, now snap out of it. If we going to help her running afraid is last thing we can do. If you want to run go downstairs with John. We will do it without you."

Father Tony opened the door to a nightmare vision that sent his belief system into a whirlpool of confusion.

Father Tony's eyes first fell on Emily. She sat on the bed in a catatonic and bizarre state. She state Indian style, like the Buddha-but twisted. Her jaw went left, her neck went right, her ears, nose, and eyebrows were unflinchingly flared. Her eyes popped and bulged and she never blinked. Nothing moved or twitched. She sat there, as still as as statue not even blinking or moving to breath. The window was open and the sun shone through and bathed Emily in light. Her skin at places was blistered, burned, and scrapped. Dried blood was smeared and crusted on the sheets.

Father Tony glanced at Emily only for a moment because despite the oddity of her appearance relative to the rest of the room she was normal.

Books, like dust, floated randomly around the room and thumped against the walls. The struck the wall and simply turned in another direction, and continued to float until they hit the next obstacle, where they turned and would continue on there way. They thumped and knocked against the walls and were the obvious cause of the commotion in hallway. There were two dozen and they all floated so that the pages dangled to the ground.

Father Tony had never seen anything like it. He turned and grabbed a book out of the air, half expecting to pull the string that held it in place. Instead the book continued. His initial grab wasn't powerful enough to pull the book from the air. He yanked it again, pulling with enough force to take a step back. The book came loose, as if it some one let it go.

Michael and Barbara both stood in the door with bewilderment in their eyes.

Many of the books were ripped and the ripped pages floated randomly amongst the books.

In his initial glance, Father Tony didn't notice but after having stood in the room a few seconds he quickly realized that walls were burned from floor to ceiling and when he rang his fingers over wood it was crispy and black soot filled his fingers. They smelled of sulfur. He didn't notice initially because the floating pages created wallpaper covered most of the black. So that as if by magic the books floated, the pages ripped, and then the pages attached themselves to the wall.

The book in his hand was a Nancy Drew and several of the pages were torn. The tares were perfect, as if cut by a knife.

Father Tony tossed the book on the ground, pulled his crucifix, keeping it between his body and Emily, and walked toward her.

"Emily?"

Nothing but the thumping of the books against the wall.

Father Tony turned to the bag Michael held, took out a purple stole, wrapped it around his neck and made sure that the purple side showed.

He grabbed Michael's forehead, traced the cross with this thumb and said, "I bless you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Stay strong Michael, the battle will soon begin."

He grabbed Barbara and repeated the same blessing, but add, "could you please begin recording."

Emily had still not breathed, moved, or blinked. The deep repeated thumping of the books against the wall was the only sound.

Father Tony kneeled placing his folded hands on the bed next to Emily.

"Christ have mercy. Lord Have Mercy. Christ hear us. God the son, Redeemer of the World. God the Holy Spirit. Holy Trinity, one God. Hear us and bless Emily Hoebetker."

Still nothing but the thump, thump, and thump of the floating books against the wall.

_Do I have the faith for this?_ Father Tony wondered with folded hands while looking up.

Father Tony turned to the camera to explain.

"I will now ask for help from the saints. Mary, mother of God, pray for us. St. Michael, pray for us. St. Gabriel, pray for us. St. Rapha...

Emily's head turned extremely slowly so that she faced Father Tony. Her expression only the direction she looked. The books continued to thump. Father Tony looked into her eyes and the only two expressions he could read coming out was questioning, 'what are you doing?' and 'I will fuck you up.'

"St. Peter, pray for us, St. Paul, pray for us. St. James, pray for us. St. John the apost...

Emily's mouth didn't move but the wail blasted. It shot out of her mouth as if she were screaming louder than possible but she took no breath. It was too loud to speak so Father Tony stopped asking the Saints for help, held his forehead in his folded hands, and waited defying the wail that blasted in his face.

Father Tony knew that this was a moment in his life. Logic dictated that everything he had been experiencing, the wail, the ash, the books, had to have an explanation. And yet here he was experiencing them and unable to explain it. He could see the crossroads he stood upon. He turn to God and regain his faith-perform his first true exorcism. Or he could ignore the immediacy of the moment and have faith that smoke and mirrors would soon be discovered.

Emily wailed for eight and a half minutes without a breath. Father Tony kneeled with folded hands and realized, belief or not, devil or not, it didn't matter. He was here to perform a ritual; it was his job and it would help this poor girl either way.

As soon as she stopped Tony continued, "Our father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..."

As he prayed, the _Rituale Romanun_ slide from underneath his folded hands. As if an invisible man were yanking, it jerked with three strong pulls. Father Tony grabbed it but it was too strong, it jerked out of his hand and floated above the bed. In a feat of not knowing what to do, Father Tony's instincts took over. He jumped. And like catching a football leapt through the air and catch the book by pulling it against his stomach and wrapping his arms around it. Only he didn't fall. The book held his weight, leaving him dangling, hair around his eyes and feet swaying, in the air and the entire breath of his body being pushed out under his weight. He coughed and gasped but his position was too awkward and slipped off the levitating book and fell on the foot of the bed. He bounced and the springs shot him to the floor where he caught himself on hands and knees.

Still Emily stood catatonic and the books "thumped thumped thumped" against the wall.

From the ground he looked up to his assistants. Michael was scared and Barbara followed him with the camera with a look that mirrored the confusion and loss of certainty in his eyes.

The pages of the _Rituale Romanun_ and flipped and ripped themselves out of their spine. 

"This can't be happening. I have never seen a real one. I don't know what to do," Father Tony said more to himself than to anyone else. MORE DESCRIPBTION OF EM NEEDED

Michael pulled out the Holy Water, dipped the dry up palm leaf, and sent a spray over Emily. The drops splashed over his skin and immediately evaporated into puffs of steam. The skin, where drop splashed, turned into a red scar of burned flesh.

"Stop it. You're only hurting Emily. It doesn't care," Father Tony said getting off the floor.

Again, experience and instinct guided his action. Father Tony went to his bag and pulled the relic that the Vatican supplied him. It was a small glass jar and inside was the right pinkie finger of St. Margareta Edner. After receiving the relic and being told it would be his most effective weapon, Father Tony studied. He wanted to know everything there was know about St. Margareta. She was a German mystic nun. She lived in the fourteenth century it was said that she had ongoing conversations with the child Jesus. Father Tony imagined he was the boy who of whom history didn't record-that she spoke with a boy from the ages of two sixteen. Her reported conversations inspired a people suffering famine and plague. Her vision inspired the people of Munich and, during a time when more than one pope claimed power, she managed to keep the people loyal to the correct pope. While studying Father Tony visited the Vatican and read her journals. At the time he read it he considered her visions bullshit, the meanderings of a woman facing the death of the black plague and turning to innocence to find peace. But seeing Emily, he realized that her finger might just be the thing.

He opened the glass, took the finger, waved in the sign of the cross, and approached Emily.

"God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving accept our prayer that I this servant of yours, bound by the fetters of sin and doubt, may be pardoned by your loving kindness. God consign this fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell. Lord strike terror into the beast defying your child. Highest Lord set Emily free from this strife. See the cross of the Lord and be gone you hostile power. See the cross of the Lord and be gone you hostile power."

He touched the bone of St. Margareta's finger on Emily's forehead and made the cross. In that instant her eyes rolled into the back of her skull, the walls burst into into a flash of orange flame, the books all fell to the ground, and her body jerked. In a quick swing she went completely horizontal pivoting from her head and rigid and lifted three feet from the bed. She levitated. Her hair and sleeping gown draped off her body.

Father Tony commanded, "In the name of the Lord I command you to be gone."

"Tony," Barbara said and pointed. "Look it's trying to tell us something."

He looked at and then looked at what she was pointing. The flames surrounding them at first ignited in flash of orange light as the pages burst into flame, but then the flame quickly died into soft blue and continuously burned (like a fireplace set on low).. The flame had been controlled and the pages didn't entirely burn. From each page one single solitary letter remained. The letters were grouped and when read from left to right collectively spelled a single word.

"What does it mean," Michael asked.

"Littera, and it literally means message or a letter?"

"What does that mean?" Barbara asked.

"I don't know, but I am guessing it wants to send a letter."

"Through the post?" Michael blurted.

Father Tony turned to the levitating teenager, "Who are you? I command you, in the name of God to tell me who are and why have you taken over this girl."

She twisted so that she was on her side and the wail again sounded but it was different. The wail modulated and changed tonation.

"It's trying to speak," Michael said.

"Don't listen," Father Tony said covering his ears. They all held their ears but Father Tony bobbed his head telling Barbara to keep recording and rolled his finger. Barbara placed the video camera on a table and covered her ears.

The attempt to speak stopped. Father Tony quickly considered his options, continue the Exorcism, fight with the relic, give up and run away, or try to communicate. Things had gotten out of his control. He didn't know what to do, but he did know that it was his job to fight for this girl..

"In the name of Jesus I command you to see the power of the cross and be gone with you hostile power," holding the bone of the finger in front of him Father Tony repeated this sentence over and over. Michael joined in the chant.

Emily continued to levitate.

They chanted for fifteen minutes. In that time Barbara picked up some of the books and noted their titles. Nancy Drew, the Phantom Tollbooth, Twilight, City of Bones, Harry Potter, the Karma Sutra in pictures,,all things that she expected in a fourteen year old's bedroom. Then while bending down to pick up Nora Robert's The Last Boyfriend she noticed a spiral notebook with butterfly drawn in blue ink over the pink cardboard cover. She assumed one of Emily's school notebooks. She picked it up and flipped through the pages. It was her diary. HEAT AND SWEAT FROM THE FIRE

"Father," Barbara said. "I think I might have found the message."

Father Tony stopped chanting and took the notebook from Barbara. The first half of the notebook was obviously that of a fourteen year old girl. It was full of pictures of butterflies and hearts and the letters were written in flowy bubble hand and the I's were dotted with hearts, and the colors varied from pink and green to blue and orange. The last pages looked like the handwriting of a serial killer. The letters were small, two rows per line, and compacted. It was only in blue pen and the writer pressed hard on the paper causing it to perforate under it's pressure. The writing filled two pages and ended.

"It's Latin. It begins,, 'carus cupitus' which translates roughly to dear dear or dear love? I am not sure it would take me a few hours to translate it and even then and I am not that good. But the Vatican could do it in minutes."

"It is a letter?" Barbara said.

"What does it say the day before the handwriting changed?" Michael asked.

"Nothing. It's just the 'I went to school. It sucks. Peter sat next...' nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Who's it from, the letter?"Barbara asked.

"Menoch."

As Father Tony said the name, everything stopped. The fire went dead. The sulfur cleared and Emily fell three feet from levitating and bounced on the springs over her bed.

"Is it over," Michael asked.

"No, I didn't do anything. I beseech you in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, see the cross of the Lord and begone, Menoch, back to the fires of hell."

Emily gasped.

"Emily? Child?" Barbara asked.

The scream of a girl and tears spewed out of Emily. Her voice quivered in fright as she said, "Help. You have to help it's still there. I don't know it just let go. It's like it's waiting for something but it's still there. O don't know what. Help. Please help."

"Sweetheart we are here for you," Barbara said rushing to the girl and running her palm over her sweat drenched and oily hair.

"Menoch, why do you hide? I, in the name of the Lord, command you be gone back to the fires of hell!"

"It's not you. It's not me. It's here for some one. It let go because it though you were him but you're not. But it's still inside me. I hear his's voice in my head."

"It's the letter," Barbara said.

Father Tony picked up the notebook and flipped to the oddly handwritten.

"Can the two of stay with her. I am going to see what I can do."

13


End file.
